


It Goes Unsaid

by Kale-y (PechoraFlow)



Series: Promptober 2020 [18]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Big Bro Gavin Reed, But focused around Connor and Hank, But it's a long road kids so buckle up, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Carl Manfred & Markus Parent-Child Relationship, Connor & Gavin Reed Friendship, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor is a Mess (Detroit: Become Human), Dead People, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Half-Siblings, Elijah Kamski Being Elijah Kamski, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Gavin Reed Redemption, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Honestly this is canon-typical stuff, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Suicide Attempt, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, no beta we die, rated for swearing and the usual canon stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29528817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PechoraFlow/pseuds/Kale-y
Summary: Hank dies, killed by the dealers of a new drug: Blue Ice. Connor goes on a warpath, dedicating every waking moment to shutting them down and sending every last one of them to jail.Only...Hank's not dead. He faked his death (with help from Fowler and Kamski) and is trying to go after the investors' side of the operation while Connor shuts down production. While Connor crumbles under the weight of his suppressed grief, Hank is none the wiser.Until it's almost too late.
Relationships: Connor & Gavin Reed, Connor & Jeffrey Fowler, Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & North (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo, Hank Anderson & Elijah Kamski, Hank Anderson & Jeffrey Fowler, Hank Anderson & Markus
Series: Promptober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947931
Comments: 82
Kudos: 103





	1. A Normal Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe in only putting tags in once the triggering material comes up in the story. Here's letting you know that these characters are going to dark places. 
> 
> But - the "dark" places are actually canon-typical, so if you're okay with what happens in the game, nothing worse happens. :)

Honestly, he probably would have kept working if Hank and Gavin hadn’t joined forces.

Hank rubbed his eyes. “Connor, you’re making me tired just by _looking_ at you.”

“I can get you a coffee in a minute, Lieutenant,” Connor said, eyes focused on the whiteboard he had in front of him. He pinned the forensics picture of the latest Blue Ice overdose victim off to the right. “I just need to get this up where I can see it. It’s-”

“Too much for your computer brain, yeah, yeah, you’ve been saying that all week,” Gavin said, his arms crossed. “Don’t you think working non-stop for a week is bad too? Did that ever occur to you?”

“It...crossed my mind,” Connor acknowledged. His eyes had yet to leave the board in front of him. “However, I dismissed it. There is simply too much information - conflicting facts, random forensics evidence… They could be using multiple sites, an army of dealers, but there’s a low probability… No. That can’t be right.”

“There he goes again,” Gavin muttered under his breath. “He’s got a screw loose or something.”

“Yep, that’s it.” Hank moved forward and grabbed Connor’s upper arm. “Reed-”

“Yep,” Gavin said, grabbing Connor’s other arm. Together, they strode towards the doors, marching Connor out of the room.

“What are you-”

“You’re going home,” Hank interrupted, “and you’re going to sleep. You’ve barely been out of the hospital for a month - you want to go back there for overheating or something?”

“I assure you, my systems are perfectly functional-” Connor craned his neck, trying to grab one last image of his hard work. Perhaps he could continue at home…

“Nope,” Hank said, putting a hand on the back of Connor’s head to keep him from turning around. “Don’t believe you for a second.”

They started up the stairs, out of the evidence room, and Connor gave up. It was unlikely that Gavin and Hank would let him go back, even if he could come up with a reasonable excuse (like retrieving his blazer, which he left on the tabletop).

Hank let go of his hold on Connor and fell behind Gavin and Connor until they reached the top of the stairs, at which point Gavin released his grip on Connor, who immediately took the opportunity to straighten his shirt and tie.

Hank leveled a stern finger in Connor’s direction. “Go. The fuck. To sleep.”

Connor frowned. “You’re not coming home?”

“It’s nine o’clock in the fuckin' morning!” Hank said, incredulous. “ _No_ I’m not going back - I _just got here_.”

“…Oh."

Gavin snickered.

Hank turned his attention on Gavin. “Make sure he gets home and doesn’t go do more investigating.”

Connor deflated. So much for that idea. Hank really did know him too well…

“You don’t give me orders,” Gavin snapped.

“Remind me, what’s my rank?” Hank challenged.

“Why? Your memory failing already?”

“Oh fuck off,” Hank grumbled, turning around and going back down the stairs, into the evidence room.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Gavin returned. He pat Connor once on the shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride. I don’t trust you to not hack a taxi.”

* * *

Connor wouldn’t tell Hank, but he was right: he desperately needed a break. He had been meaning to take one - honest, he did - but he kept moving the goalpost. He just needed to check this one more thing, he just needed to try one more pattern, one more picture, one more note…

That had started four days ago.

Gavin dropped him off back at his house and Connor let himself inside, skillfully catching Sumo and keeping him from barreling out the door. “Hey, Sumo. Hey, buddy. I missed you too.”

Sumo licked Connor’s jaw in response.

“Okay,” Connor laughed. “Okay, okay. Back up, come on. I need to go to sleep or Dad will make someone put me into manual standby.”

He shut the front door behind him-

...Wait.

He froze for a moment, replaying his memory files back through in his mind to make sure he said what he _thought_ he had just said.

Yep.

Yes he did.

He referred to his friend, Lieutenant Hank Anderson, as “Dad.”

He stood there dumbly, searching through the file that he kept on his partner. Technically, Hank was listed as “good friend” on Connor’s personal records.

Did he think of Hank as a father-figure? Was that even possible? Was that...something he wanted?

He had never had a “father” before - was it possible to want something he really knew nothing about?

And if it was - if he saw Hank as something like a father… Was that something he should... _tell_ him? Or ask? Or was it something to keep to himself?

Internally, he changed the classification from “GOOD FRIEND” to “DAD” and smiled to himself.

Maybe that was something he wanted.

The warm, bubbly feeling in his chest stayed with him as he laid down on the couch and powered down, going into stasis.

He wouldn’t tell Hank. Not _now_. He had only known him for five months - and Hank was not the overly sentimental type. Connor only knew about Cole because he pieced together the clues himself. Hank had yet to actually _talk_ about him - though his loss still weighed heavily on the man’s conscience.

No, Connor wouldn’t say anything. He didn’t know how Hank would react, anyway, and he would hate to ruin their relationship just to say something that didn’t need to be said.

Setting an alarm for when Hank was supposed to come back, he let himself power down, and he rested.

* * *

Naturally, Connor was surprised when he woke up before his alarm.

He opened his eyes, systems slowly coming back on line.

First, his vision: Gavin had grabbed his shoulder and was trying to shake him awake.

Then, his hearing: “-to get up. There was… Hank’s in the hospital.”

For a second, the words didn’t compute. Connor blinked for a moment. “What- Hank’s in the hospital?”

“Yeah, come on,” Gavin said, moving to where Connor’s coat hung by the door. “I’ll drive.”

“What happened?” Connor asked. He stood up, recalibrating his biocomponents in a hurry. “It’s not his heart, is it? I thought his health was relatively in stable condition-”

“No, it’s not-” Gavin tossed Connor’s coat to him. “Look, I dunno what’s wrong. Fowler sent me to get you and that’s it. Just come on; I’m sure the doc will tell us everything when we get there.”

* * *

Connor hadn’t been in the human hospital before.

Hank had never been hurt so badly that he had needed to go to one, anyway. On the rare occasion that Hank was the one injured at a crime scene, he was always given on-site by the paramedics and sent home. Even when he should have gone to the hospital, he refused. Hank always said he didn’t like hospitals. Connor assumed it had something to do with Cole’s passing.

Connor decided he didn’t like hospitals, either.

He sat next to Gavin in an uncomfortable, white plastic chair. Well, he couldn’t tell that it was uncomfortable, but judging from the way Gavin kept shifting, then standing and pacing for a minute before returning to his chair, they must not have been pleasant.

Connor himself sat as still as a statue, watching the clock in the corner of his vision as the seconds ticked by ever so slowly.

Fowler had shown up a few hours ago, but he had said that he could not stay and had left, giving them strict instructions to let him know how Hank’s surgery had gone, once they heard anything.

Surgery.

Hank had been in surgery for four hours.

Chris said that he and Hank were looking at a new crime scene.

He said that it was supposed to have been long-deserted. It was supposed to have been safe.

There were gunshots, and Hank dropped.

Connor had already tried to hack into the hospital’s database, but they must have upgraded their cybersecurity; he wasn’t able to break in. It was odd, but not so outside the realm of possibility. He resigned himself to waiting, like a normal human.

Gavin stood again, for the forty-sixth time in the past two hours. “I’m gonna go look for coffee. You need anything?”

Connor shook his head, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

Gavin patted Connor’s shoulder and went off in search of coffee.

And Connor was left alone.

Well, not alone. There was another android in the waiting area, along with five humans. One of the humans had been here for longer than Connor, but the others had come in at various points after he and Gavin arrived.

The sliding doors opened and Connor glanced over to see if Gavin had found his coffee. Instead, his eyes fell on Markus and North, who were walking over toward him.

Connor stood for the first time in hours, mentally preparing himself to greet his friends yet having nothing to say. He couldn’t find the words. All he could manage was a simple. “Hello.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Markus wrapped his arms around Connor in a hug. Connor returned the embrace, unsure of whether or not he was simply acting on autopilot.

“We heard,” North said from behind Markus. “We thought you might like the company, while you wait.”

“Gavin came with me,” Connor said, pulling out of the hug. “You just missed him, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Markus smiled and kept a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “That’s good. I’m glad you have other friends - not just Hank.”

North took the seat next to the chair Connor had been occupying for the past few hours. _“So, how is he?”_ she asked, using her internal communications network to keep their conversation private.

Connor sat back down, and Markus followed suit, taking the seat across from him. _“He’s still in surgery. They won’t really tell me anything else.”_

North frowned. _“What? Seriously?”_

 _“He was already being operated on when I arrived,”_ Connor said. _“Hank has Fowler listed as his medical power of attorney, and he okayed it. He didn’t really stick around for very long. He said that he had a lot of work that needed to be done - reports to be filed and the usual. Chris - the other officer that went with Hank - said the same thing.”_

North scoffed and crossed her arms. _“That’s stupid. When they’re done, talk to Hank about being his emergency contact - and his power of attorney.”_

"Good fucking grief.”

The three deviants looked up and saw Gavin, back with a styrofoam cup in hand. “You’re doing that creepy head-phone thing, aren’t you.”

Connor gave him a wan smile. “Found it?” He gestured to the cup.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, sitting back down on Connor’s other side with a huff. “Tastes like ass, but it’s warm.”

“You’ve met Markus and North,” Connor said.

Markus held out a hand for a handshake. “I don’t think so. Detective Reed, I presume?”

Gavin put his coffee cup aside, then shook Markus’s hand. “Yep.”

North looked over Gavin with a skeptical eye. _“You have interesting taste in friends, Connor.”_ Connor ignored her for the moment.

“Have you heard anything about what happened? Do you know when the surgery will be over?” Markus asked, folding his hands.

Connor shook his head.

“They won’t tell us anything specific until Hank can confirm that he’s family,” Gavin said, sending another glare towards the receptionist. “There’s no official record that they live together. We’re lucky they said that they would tell us the results of the surgery.”

Markus’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t tell them that he’s your dad?”

Connor just about short circuited. “Of course not. Because he’s not… He’s not. He’s a good friend.”

“Connor, it’s okay to think of him as your father, if you do,” Markus said, his eyes softening. “The human I used to live with - Carl? He protected me, when he could. Taught me how to express myself, how to deviate… He was just as much a father to me as he was to his biological son.”

Connor shook his head. “No. That word doesn’t mean the same thing to Hank as it does to you, and if he wakes up and the first thing he hears is that I just... _made_ him take that title… No. He’s my friend.”

“Besides, I already tried,” Gavin said.

Connor sputtered. “What-?”

“They still needed to see paperwork in order to let Connor in," Gavin went on, then turned to Connor. “Actually, me telling them that he basically adopted you is probably the only reason why they’ve agreed to tell us anything.”

“I can’t believe you would-”

“Yes you can. You know me. I’ve done weirder shit before.”

The doors near the receptionist’s desk opened, and the room’s conversations hushed. Every eye focused on the nurse that had just opened the door, waiting to see if she would call the name of their loved one.

“Anderson?” she called.

Connor knew that it was not physically possible for him to feel nauseous, but the tightening in his muscles and the anxiety that fluttered in his middle sounded like what “feeling nauseous” would feel like.

He stood, perfectly in control despite the hurricane of emotions whirring through him. “Yes?”

“Right this way,” she said, expression blank. Connor reengaged his social module, trying to determine what sort of news she was going to deliver. Good? Bad? Mixed?

Results were inconclusive.

Connor adjusted his shirt and made to follow her, barely registering the small words of encouragement from his friends.

The nurse pushed open the door, and Connor walked through the doorway.

The rest of the hospital was even worse than the waiting area. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same shade of white. Nurses in blue and doctors in white walked past, but they said nothing. It was all very quiet and very clean. It reminded Connor too much of CyberLife Tower for comfort.

Despite the almost oppressive silence, Connor couldn’t stop himself. As soon as the door to the waiting room shut behind him, he asked, “How is he? How was the surgery?”

She stopped in the hallway and turned back to him, giving him her full attention. “I was informed that you are his next-of-kin?”

“I… Yes. My name’s Connor.”

The nurse nodded. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to be the bearer of bad news, Connor, and it never gets easier. Unfortunately, Mr. Anderson did not survive the surgery. He died three minutes ago before the surgery was complete. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Connor blinked.

He opened his mouth to say something…

He had nothing to say.

He checked his social module again, making sure that this wasn’t some sort of joke, or maybe she used some sort of slang that he did not yet have in his database - or perhaps some sort of medical term that had a different dictionary definition…

“Would you like me to take you to him?” the nurse asked.

Connor clenched and unclenched his fists, at a loss for what to do. The nurse took pity on him and gestured for him to follow her. He obeyed the silent order, falling into step behind her as she led him down a series of hallways, each one nearly indistinguishable from the last. Connor knew, logically, that he could probably find the blueprint schematics of the hospital and map out where they were going.

But doing so would mean that he couldn’t keep replaying his memory of the past few minutes. The video file of the nurse calling his name and telling him that Hank…

That Hank was…

The video file itself was only thirty-seven seconds long.

His life had cracked, like a mirror just barely held in place by some miracle of chance, in thirty-seven seconds.

He considered sending a message to Gavin, Markus, and North, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you just...told someone over text. He would have to tell them later. They would understand.

Finally, the nurse stopped outside of a room and turned back to Connor. “I can only give you a minute. I’ll be right here.”

Connor nodded, and she pushed open the door.

And Connor’s world shattered.

He ran a scan just to be sure-

IDENTIFIED: LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON  
BORN: 09/06/1985  
DECEASED

A sudden rush of software instabilities caused him to freeze up. He struggled to keep up with the rush of emotions-

- _shockdespairangerguiltsadnessheartbreak-_

-but it was too much. There was too much to process, too much to accept, but he couldn’t process any of it. It was as if his CPU itself had stopped working.

He managed a shaky step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

And he found himself beside Hank’s body.

Connor’s design had never particularly bothered him before, but now, he wished that he could just _shut everything off._ He knew that his memory was recording; that he would see this moment in perfect clarity whenever he thought of Hank. He could see the temperature of Hank’s body dropping. He could see the lack of vital signs, the absent heartbeat, the lack of brain activity… He could tell exactly when Hank had died, where he had been shot, and what had killed him (irreversible damage to the subclavian artery, hypovolemic shock resulting in organ failures-)

Suddenly unable to look at the form under the white sheet, Connor’s eyes fell to the floor. The mental image of what lay in front of him stayed with him, burned onto the back of his eyelids. He reached out, intending to take Hank’s hand, but he hesitated.

Logically, he knew that Hank…that Hank was dead. He knew he would have to go out and go home and live in a house without him. (Was it even his house? Could he go back? What would happen to Sumo? What would happen to _him_?) He would have to go back to the DPD, where he would be assigned a new partner because…because Hank was dead.

But, in his mind, Hank was still a lively figure. He listened to heavy metal and jazz on the way home from work. He made sure that Connor was taking care of himself and that he was happy. He smirked and his eyes softened when he was happy, and if he was ticked off, he made sure to let everyone know it. He stuck up for Connor when Connor wasn’t willing to stick up for himself, and he liked his coffee black in the mornings, and he had a sweet tooth and a soft spot for kids, and he had just told Connor to go to bed a few hours ago and that was the last thing he had said to him…

 _That_ Hank and the Hank that lay on the hospital bed in front of Connor were two separate entities at the moment ( _even though they weren’t and he had to accept it-_ ) and he worried that, if he were to touch Hank’s hand, that this would all become more _real,_ that the two Hanks would unite in his mind, and his memory of Hank would die along with the real man.

The nurse saved him ~~(prevented him?)~~ from making that choice. She opened the door. “Connor?”

Connor looked back towards the nurse, crossing his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you stay here any longer,” she said. “Not until his power of attorney arrives.”

“That’s okay,” he said, taking her reasoning as his excuse to leave, to run away from this...this mess of emotions and software instabilities that infected his code, his core. “I…”

“You’ll be able to see him again at the funeral, if you want,” the nurse supplied.

Connor nodded. “Right. Yes… I…” _I already have the memory file recorded._

_I don’t want to be here._

_I don’t want this to be real._

The nurse waited for a second to see if Connor would finish his thought, but when he didn’t, she continued. “I’ll take you back to your friends.”

Connor nodded, but didn’t say anything. He simply left the room, refusing to look back - to see the lack of life signs again, because _he couldn’t_ see that again. He couldn’t…

He needed to preserve the memory of Hank that he had. He had only known the man for five months, but Hank had been a rock in his life; he had given him a home. A family.

Connor ducked out of the room, and the nurse shut the door behind him.

She led him back to the waiting room in silence. He followed her, numb to his surroundings, overwhelmed by the software instabilities spreading to his other systems.

When she opened the door - the door she first came out of, where she told him the news that broke everything - Connor couldn’t find it in him to be surprised to find Fowler there. Gavin must have called him once Connor had been led away by the nurse.

They looked at him as soon as the door opened, anxious hope on their expressions.

Connor didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Gavin ran a hand back through his hair, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Shit,” he whispered.

Fowler approached Connor and set a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be alright, Connor. I’ll handle everything, don’t worry about it.”

“The funeral?” Connor choked.

Fowler nodded. “I’ll handle it. Do you want to spend more time…?”

Connor was already shaking his head. “No, no I… No.”

“Okay,” Fowler said, squeezing Connor’s shoulder in reassurance. “I have to handle paperwork and wrap up a few things, but if you want to wait here, I can drive you home.”

Connor crossed his arms, suddenly feeling sick at the thought of being home, _alone_ , waiting for Hank to show up but knowing he never would.

They were supposed to take Sumo to Belle Isle, tomorrow.

Hank had alluded to planning a “surprise” for Connor’s birthday, even though it was still four months away.

Connor had already been planning for Hank’s.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Markus said, standing up and moving to Connor’s side. “I can make sure Connor arrives home.”

“That okay with you, Connor?” Fowler asked, turning to the deviant detective.

Connor nodded once, swallowing in an attempt to clear his throat enough to allow himself to speak - but it didn’t work.

“Alright,” Fowler said. “Take a few days off, at least. I’ll swing by later and we can talk about...the legal side of everything.”

 _The legal side._ Like the fact that, legally, Connor wasn’t recognized as a resident at Hank’s home. He would probably be evicted. Maybe he could look after Sumo - maybe not.

“Stop,” Fowler said. He pointed to Connor’s LED. “I can see you thinking. Look, I don’t know the specifics, but I know that Hank left pretty much everything to you. So don’t worry about anything but…you know.”

Connor supposed that, if he were in the right state of mind, Fowler’s news would have been a relief. But in reality, it barely registered. Connor nodded numbly.

Markus gently took Connor’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

Connor was half-convinced that he had started to shutdown.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t feel.

Markus guided him behind North and Gavin as the four of them left the waiting room and made their way to the parking lot, where Markus led Connor to the back.

Connor climbed in, sitting next to Gavin, who hadn’t bothered with a seatbelt (as usual). Markus and North turned the front seats forward, providing the two detectives with some form of privacy.

Connor unseeingly stared straight ahead, at the back of Markus’s seat.

“If you don’t want to stay at Hank’s, you can crash at my place,” Gavin offered quietly. “I’ve got a foldout couch.”

“I need to feed Sumo,” Connor said.

Gavin nodded. “Okay. You ever need a place, you let me know.”

Connor tried to offer a smile of gratitude, but he had a feeling that it came out sadder than he had intended. “Thank you, Gavin. That means a lot.”

Gavin said nothing, instead leaning his head back and shutting his eyes.

Connor let his eyes fall to his hands in his lap, and he said nothing else for the rest of the drive.

When they pulled up outside Hank’s house, Connor got out of the car with a small “Thank you” and reassured Markus that he would be fine on his own for the night.

It was only after their car had pulled away and Connor had reentered his home that he realized he really didn’t want to be alone.

Sumo looked up from where he lay on his bed in the corner, thumping his tail against the living room floor and perking up his ears.

From there, Connor went through the motions. He fed Sumo, as usual, and while the dog was eating, he cleaned the kitchen (taking _extreme_ care when washing Hank’s favorite mug - the one that he had used just that morning and hadn’t finished). He let Sumo out into the backyard for a few minutes, turned on the TV to the Detroit Gears’ game. He didn’t pay any attention to it, but having the noise play in the background brought him a small amount of comfort.

He looked back at the couch, where Hank would usually sit-

And there he was.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^^

Connor blinked, and Hank was gone.

But...he could have _sworn_ that he had seen…

No. It must have been some sort of memory glitch. His software instabilities must have caused his realtime perception and his memory files to bleed into each other.

He called Sumo back inside and shut off the television.

For a minute, he considered just sleeping on the couch, as he usually did. But when Sumo moved to Hank’s bedroom door and pushed against it with his snout, Connor changed his mind. He opened the door, and Sumo jumped up onto Hank’s still unmade bed. Connor shut the door behind him and followed Sumo’s example, only taking an extra second to kick off his shoes before crawling under Hank’s duvet comforter.

Sumo sighed.

Connor grabbed one of Hank’s pillows and held it tightly, hiding his face from the rest of the world. He knew that tears were an expected human reaction, but he wouldn’t allow himself to dissolve. Not when Hank’s murderers were still out there. He needed to be rested. He needed to be in his right mind in order to catch them.

And he wasn’t going to get back to normal by indulging his software instabilities and crying. No. He would just...quarantine the instabilities, get a good night’s sleep, and try not to think about how pale Hank had looked, how unnerving it had been, that he had instantly started to analyze his friend’s body like he was a new victim at a crime scene.

A voice in the back of his mind chastised him. Why hadn’t he touched Hank’s hand? Maybe he missed something, some sign of life that he could have picked up on…

No.

Now he was just being irrational. If Hank were still alive, Fowler would let him know. The hospital would be able to tell.

No.

Hank was dead.

* * *

Hank paced back and forth in the Manfred mansion’s drawing room, trying to ignore the giant giraffe that had been staring at him for the last few hours. (Yes, he knew it was taxidermy, but it _looked_ like it was staring and that was _worse_.)

Elijah Kamski, sitting on an armchair by the darkened window, rolled his eyes. “Would you stop? You’re giving me a headache.”

“What, you’re too dizzy?” Hank challenged, his frayed nerves making him more aggressive than usual. "Oh dear, what _ever_ will I do? Let me just go stop the world from spinning. I could see how it revolving around you all the time would give you a fucking headache.”

Kamski chose not to respond, instead taking a drink from his glass of sparkling water.

Hank ignored him and went back to pacing, waiting for time to pass.

Finally, the double doors to the room opened, and Fowler entered, closely followed by Markus and Chris.

Hank stopped pacing. “Well?”

“It worked,” Fowler said with a grimace. “He believes you’re dead.”

Kamski scoffed. “Of course it worked. I know the RK800’s processor better than anyone. Therefore, I can trick it better than anyone.”

Hank glared at the billionaire. _“Him._ He’s a person, asshole.”

Kamski looked at him innocently. “Of course he is. I was talking about the CPU.”

“The _point is_ ,” Fowler interrupted, “now, according to all publicly available legal records and tomorrow’s issue of _The Detroit News_ , Hank Anderson is dead. The operation is a go.”

“And apart from the people in this room, Detroit is none the wiser,” Chris added.

Something in Hank soured at the thought.

Kamski set aside his drink, stood up, and clapped his hands together. “Fantastic work, gentlemen. Now, if you excuse me, I’m exhausted from working on our Fake Lieutenant. I’m going to bed.”

“I need to get going, too,” Chris said, checking his wristwatch. “Damian’s been a handful lately, and I don’t want to get home too late.”

“I’ll show you out,” Markus said, gesturing to the door.

Markus, Kamski, and Chris moved out into the foyer, but Hank snagged Fowler’s sleeve and held him back. “How’d he take it?” he asked.

“About as well as you’d expect,” Fowler said, sighing. “I sent him home, told him to take a week off. I don’t think I could keep him from investigating for much longer, anyway. And I told him I would sort through all the legal requirements, so he doesn’t have to worry about where he’ll stay or anything.”

“Alright,” Hank said. Well, no, it wasn’t alright, but it was necessary. Already, over a thousand people had died from Blue Ice - and it was only April. The rate of drug overdose deaths was skyrocketing; it was a problem that needed a solution _yesterday_.

Hank leveled a look at his oldest friend. “Promise me you’re gonna look after him. He looks like an adult, but he's just a kid. He doesn’t know how to deal with... _this_. Just keep an eye on him for me, will you? And keep me posted?”

Fowler returned his look with severity. “I promise. He’s got the entire department looking out for him, Hank. Especially now that Gavin’s friends with him - which is still weird to say out loud, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Connor will be fine, Hank. You just focus on busting these investors, and we’ll get you home as soon as we can.”

Hank nodded. After a second, he added, “Are you sure we can’t just...tell him?”

Fowler shook his head. “If he gets kidnapped again, all those fuckers need is a USB cable and they’ll be able to see his memories in 4K. You’d be exposed in a second. Plus, they’re probably watching Gavin and Connor, still. If they see the two of them mourning, that’ll throw them off your trail.”

“It’s not sitting right with me,” Hank confessed, crossing his arms self-consciously. “If the places were switched, and _Connor_ …”

If Hank were suddenly called and told that Connor had been shot, that Connor had _died…_

It would have been Cole all over again.

It would have _broken_ him.

Fowler nodded in understanding. “Which is why we didn’t ask Connor. Besides, the kid’s something of a celebrity after November, and they’re already watching him. It had to be you.”

“I’m flattered,” Hank said, deadpan. He started to walk towards the doors, ready for the next step of their operation, but he turned around once more. “I mean it, Jeff. Make sure he’s okay, or I’m out. For good.”

“Scout’s honor,” Fowler promised.


	2. Funeral for the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs room to process.

After a long night of setting Hank up and briefing him on his role for the coming weeks, Fowler returned home, exhausted, and went to bed at the ungodly hour of two o’clock in the morning.

And then woke up and dragged himself to work at the equally ungodly hour of six in the morning.

Which was a long way of saying he wasn’t willing to deal with this shit when Connor entered the bullpen at seven-thirty on the dot.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting long enough for Connor to make it to his desk and put his jacket down, then got up and stuck his head out of the door to his office. “Connor!” he barked.

Connor looked up, paying no attention to the looks he was getting from the rest of the department as they watched him, as if he were a ghost.

Fowler returned to his desk and sat down just as Connor entered. “Yes, Captain?”

“Shut the door,” he said. 

Connor did so, then moved to one of the seats in front of Fowler’s desk.

Fowler drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, looking over his detective. Connor _seemed_ fine. His appearance was a far cry from Hank’s, that was for sure. Fowler could remember Hank’s first day back after he had lost Cole - his shirt had been buttoned oddly, his eye-bags had eye-bags, and he hadn’t bothered with his hair that morning.

But Connor looked the same as he always did; brown hair with an unruly curl on his forehead, white oxford shirt buttoned all the way up with a perfectly tied black tie, and a leather jacket. His LED spun yellow.

Fowler frowned and pointed to Connor’s LED. “You alright?"

“I’ve been thinking about the case,” Connor said. “I think I’m starting to get somewhere.”

“And that’s why you’re in today?” Fowler asked.

Now it was Connor’s turn to look confused. “It’s Thursday. I’m supposed to clock in.”

“You know you get time off, right? You can take a few days, sort through everything-”

“I’m _fine,_ Captain,” Connor said tersely.

Fowler paused for a minute, waiting to see if Connor would continue with his train of thought, but when he didn’t, Fowler stood, moving to the front of the desk and leaning back against it, arms folded across his chest. “Look. I know it’s gotta be difficult. I know Hank meant a lot to you-”

“I read Chris’s report,” Connor interrupted. His glare hardened as his eyes flicked up to meet Fowler’s. “I know that Hank died in a Blue Ice-related incident. There is an eighty-six percent chance that one of the producers that we’ve been chasing ended up killing him. So, sir, let me do my job and bring him to justice. I’ll bring him in and have a confession by the end of the week.”

Fowler laughed, incredulous. “It’s Thursday, already.”

“I am aware,” Connor returned.

Fowler was tempted to just say no. He should have just sent Connor home - at least for the rest of the week - but when he opened his mouth to say as much, he found himself at a loss for words. For an instant, he looked at his detective and saw himself.

He remembered tracking down the perp that had robbed and shot his father, a few years back; it had been _personal,_ and it had been a welcome distraction from the stress and anxiety of his father being in a coma. Perhaps that’s what Connor needed: a distraction.

Well, if the kid wouldn’t take the time off, maybe Fowler could give him this.

“Well, shit, Connor, what am I supposed to say?” Fowler said. “Go get him.”

Connor nodded once. “Yes sir.”

* * *

Hank was not the “artistic” type.

He liked music, he liked puzzles, and he liked sports. So no, he didn’t know what the difference between “cubism" and “constructivism” and “minimalism” - it all looked like paint on canvas.

(What the fuck? Different types of paint? Oh good fucking grief. This operation was turning out to be a _nightmare_.)

Markus had agreed to let them use the Manfred mansion as an impromptu base-of-operations while they launched Hank’s new undercover role as Robert Fitzgerald - art broker from New York, with a degree in Art History from Columbia.

So, naturally, Hank needed to know art history.

In a few days.

Hank groaned. “How many different styles are there, anyway? Never mind. Don’t wanna know. Good grief these people have too much time on their hands.”

Markus smiled in amusement. “Connor said you enjoyed trivia shows. I would have thought this would come naturally to you.”

“Look, I don’t choose what my brain remembers, okay?” Hank said, giving the deviant leader an annoyed glare. “I can’t remember what my ex-wife’s wedding dress looked like. But the first time I had to clean up Sumo’s vomit off the carpet? I remember every second of that. Haunts my nightmares. Fucking disgusting.”

“You just need a working knowledge,” Markus said. “You’ll be wearing an earpiece, but I can’t tell you every single thing you’re supposed to say. Whatever you can pick up now will help you blend in at galas and dinners-”

Hank groaned again - louder this time. “I’m not wearing a tux.”

“Not everyday,” Markus agreed.

“Never,” Hank said, dead serious. “Five years ago? Sure. I could’ve rocked a tux. But I’ve gained thirty pounds since then and tuxes don’t exactly do me any favors.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Markus promised. "Now. Back to post-Realist art movements.”

Hank grumbled under his breath.

* * *

Kamski looked bemused. “Really? You’ve never been to a tailor before?”

“Of course I’ve been to a tailor,” Hank bit back, trying not to feel too self conscious as Chloe wrapped a tape measure around his torso. “Just not recently.”

“Well, that explains the lack of viable clothing,” Kamski said, raising an eyebrow at Hank’s vibrant button-up shirt, which lay on the floor nearby.

Hank shot a glare at Kamski. “I’m a detective, not some pompous asshole who manages money. Pardon me for not looking the part.”

Kamski waved him off. “You’ll have plenty to choose from, once we’re through. Chloe?”

“Almost done,” Chloe responded, wrapping the tape measure around Hank’s right arm. “Then we can get to dying your hair. Have you picked a color yet?”

“Grey.”

Kamski snorted. “The point of changing your appearance is to actually _change your appearance,_ Lieutenant.”

“Dark grey.”

“Black?”

“The fuck did I say? Did you hear me say ‘black’? No. Dark grey.”

“...Red it is.”

“You better _fucking not-”_

* * *

Fowler sat on one of the couches in the Manfred mansion’s drawing room, waiting with his hands clasped in front of him.

Kamski sat nearby, typing away at a tablet in his lap. Chloe, Markus, and Hank had yet to show their faces.

“You want to know what I think?” Kamski asked, keeping his eyes on the tablet. Fowler raised an eyebrow, and Kamski took his silence as an invitation to go on. “We may actually pull this off.”

“I dunno,” Fowler said. “It’ll take more than a day or two to fully ‘My-Fair-Lady’ Hank.”

As if on cue, the doors to the drawing room opened and Hank entered, followed by Markus and Chloe. His hair was cut short, looking more like he had when he first made Lieutenant than his usual self (that is, if he hadn’t greyed young and had kept his dark brown hair). He had shaved, as well, and wore square, rimless glasses with a gunmetal grey suit.

Hank spread out his hands. “How do I look?”

“You look the part, that’s for sure,” Fowler laughed, shaking his head. “Shit, Hank. I didn’t think you’d be the type to have a midlife crisis like this.”

Hank glared at him. “Hilarious. Hysterical. You done?”

“Alright, alright,” Fowler said. He quickly regained control of himself and sobered up. "You ready to get this going?”

“Ready to get it done,” he said. “I miss my dog.”

“Right.” Fowler stood, moving around the couch and leading the gathered few over to the dining room table. When Markus joined, Fowler stopped. “You sure you want to stay on?” Fowler asked. “I know you’re friends with Connor. I could see how it would be difficult to keep this from him.”

Markus’s gaze hardened. “I will remind you that Blue Ice isn’t just a human issue, Captain. My people will be safer with it off the streets. I want to do what I can to help.”

Fowler nodded once, then put a manila folder on the dining room table. “Connor’s been busy, so we have some more intel.”

“What?” Hank asked, bewildered for only a second before he jumped to conclusions. “Oh, hell, Jeffrey. You couldn’t have given him the week off-?!”

“I _did,_ ” Fowler said. "He came in yesterday morning, ready to get back to work. Hasn’t really left since.”

“…Huh," Hank said, frowning at the folder on the table in front of him.

“I’ll talk with him,” Markus said. "I could see him overworking himself in an attempt to avoid dealing with his emotions. That’s what I did.”

“Alright, well, make sure he doesn’t start another revolution or something,” Hank joked, but Fowler knew him too well; he could recognize an attempt to save face when he saw one. Learning that Connor had gotten over Hank so quickly was hurting him. He’d never admit it, though, because that would require admitting that he cared about Connor deeply and expected that love to be returned. Hank was not the type to be emotionally vulnerable. Ever.

“So, what’d he get?” Hank asked, moving the briefing along.

Fowler flipped open the folder and spread out several photos and mugshots. “Connor and Gavin brought in these three this morning. They’re part of the production side of things. Confessed after five minutes in the interrogation room.”

Hank blinked. “Wait, what the fuck? Five minutes?”

“Don’t ask,” Fowler said.

Hank rubbed the space between his eyebrows, exasperated. “Alright. What’d they spill?”

“A lot and not much,” Fowler said. “They confirmed our suspicions about a high-profile buyer, but said that there were multiple. All three said four investors, so you’ll be trying to get into their group, not just identify one guy.”

“I better be getting paid overtime for this, Jeff,” Hank grumbled.

Fowler ignored him and went on. “We’re getting more locations of their warehouse supply shipments, but there are multiple branches on the production end. Seems like one of the investors manages the production, and the other three provide the funds. So, until we identify our investors, we’ll call the one with his hands on production ‘Keystone’, and the other three will be ‘Alpha’, ‘Beta’, and ‘Gamma’. Clear so far?”

“Yep.” Hank nodded. "So, what, I find one guy, gain his trust, get into the group, get names and figure out how to catch them red-handed.”

“If that’s how you want to play it, that works,” Fowler agreed.

“Any clue who that guy is?”

“Connor might be able to get a name, we’ll see. It’ll be easier to identify them as Connor clamps down on their production end,” Fowler said. “They’ll panic, they’ll be looking for ways to launder their money and put it in hard assets. Enter Robert Fitzpatrick-”

“Fitzgerald.”

“-and his art dealing. Hopefully, one will recommend you to the rest of them, and you’ll start taking names.”

Hank nodded and picked up on of the mugshots, scrutinizing the face of their latest identified dealer. “Sounds simple enough. Then I go home?”

“Yep,” Fowler said. “I call Connor in, explain the op, and we ease him back into the regular swing of things. Hopefully, we take care of this quick enough to catch everyone before they cover their tracks. Maybe a month, no more than two.”

Hank snorted. “At the rate Connor’s going, he’ll be done next week.”

* * *

Saturday.

Three days after Hank…

Connor looked over his appearance once again in the bathroom mirror.

He hadn’t been home since Thursday morning except for brief periods of time, mostly just to feed Sumo and take him on a walk. Every other waking moment was consumed by work.

He finally finished the timeline in the basement evidence room, just in time for when Gavin came in to work on Friday. Gavin had taken a look at it, then pulled up a chair and said, “Alright. Whatcha got?”

The two of them had worked hard all day, barely stopping for a break (and only because Tina and Chris had made them, under penalty of convincing Fowler to suspend their badges). And, finally, Connor had located their number one suspect. The two of them set out, and an hour later, they were back in the DPD, escorting a man named James Holly into the interrogation room, where they stayed for only five minutes before Connor walked out of the room, adjusted his tie, and went back down into the evidence room. Gavin walked Holly out a moment later - the suspect now walking oddly, but with no visible sign of injury. He was placed in holding along with two accomplices, and then Gavin retreated downstairs, as well.

Connor would have kept working through the weekend…

If it weren’t for Hank’s funeral.

Part of him was tempted to just go back into work; to keep living in the false reality, where Hank’s funeral was something he could postpone, something he didn’t have to face.

But he couldn’t, and while going to Hank's funeral was a pain that he didn't want to have to go through, _missing_ Hank's funeral would be worse. It'd be his last chance to see him...

Connor adjusted his black Oxford shirt, making sure the collar fit snugly around his throat. A black, knee-length trench coat and matching pants completed the look and, hopefully, gave the impression that he was deep in mourning and was not to be disturbed.

The truth was, he wasn’t in mourning. Not yet. Not until every last one of the Blue Ice dealers were in jail for their crimes. He could never be sure which of them were involved in Hank’s murder, but they worked for the same group, and that was good enough for him.

Even now, his mind was racing, running algorithms and searching cameras all over the city, just to make sure he could catch them. Already, he had found four more suspects just that morning, and he had been tracking their movements ever since.

He would be back in the office tomorrow. He could hunt them down then.

His LED spun a wicked yellow, occasionally blipping red from all the processing strain. From his interactions with the other officers at the DPD, they had assumed that the cause of his LED was his emotional state. Normally, they would have been correct, but Connor had carefully quarantined his software instabilities after his first night home. The only emotions he allowed himself to feel were bitterness and anger.

And when those ran out? When he returned home, exhausted from being constantly angry all the time? He shut himself off, defaulting to his basic protocols so that he could take care of Sumo and get back to work. He had considered bringing Sumo along to the funeral as well, but it was likely to rain, later, and Connor expected that he’d be out for awhile. He would just...take Sumo by Hank’s grave another time, so that he could...he could say his goodbyes...

He heard a knock at his front door and took a breath, forcing himself not to tear up.

He could do this. He would go to the funeral and just...not pay attention. He had work to do, suspects to track. He could do that, be physically present but mentally distracted, blocking the world out for a few hours…

He stepped out of the bathroom and froze.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^^

Hank looked back at him from the couch, an easy smirk on his face as his blue eyes settled on Connor.

“Lookin’ sharp, Con’,” he said.

Connor blinked.

He was alone.

The couch was empty.

Connor’s hands trembled, and his ventilation biocomponents were petrified. He couldn’t make himself move, yet he wanted to run, to escape this...whatever it was. His LED blared red, splashing red light across the walls.

He scanned the house, and scanned again just to make sure…

No. No life except for Sumo sleeping in his bed.

Connor adjusted his collar and jacket, trying to regain full control of his hands, which were shaking uncontrollably.

There was another knock at the door. “Connor? You ready?” _Gavin._

Connor quickly moved across the living room, steadfastly ignoring the couch, and he opened the door. Gavin stood on the doorstep, wearing his dress blues.

Connor hid his quaking hands in his pockets, but from the way Gavin’s eyes flicked to Connor’s hands, he likely picked up on the shaking. However, he said nothing about it, instead saying, “I hope you don’t mind my bike.”

“Not a problem,” Connor said. He stepped out of the house, and with one final wave towards Sumo, he shut the front door behind him.

* * *

Markus had been to far too many funerals for comfort.

He had lost track of how many times he had seen a casket lowered into the ground, offering comfort to androids that did not believe in an afterlife. Suffice it to say that funerals were common enough that he had funeral attire, set aside and ready to go like a spare uniform.

Though, he supposed this funeral was unique; it wasn't everyday you were invited to go to a funeral for someone who wasn’t dead.

He showed up to the cemetery, since Connor had declined a full procession, opting instead for a small graveside service with a few, select people. Most people at the service were officers, save for Connor and a few others that Markus didn’t recognize. The casket, closed with an American Star Spangled Banner draped across the top, rested above a newly-dug grave.

He hadn’t seen Connor since they dropped him off after the hospital; he was so busy teaching Hank the basics of art history that he had neglected checking in on one of his close friends. Mentally, he kicked himself. Of all people, he knew what Connor was going through. The sudden rush of emotion from losing Carl had caused him to deviate in the first place.

Connor sat near the headstone on a foldout chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked down at the grass between his feet. Detective Reed sat next to him, a hand on Connor's shoulder in solidarity. North sat on Connor’s other side, maintaining a distance but staying by him.

She spotted Markus and gestured for him to join them, moving over so that Markus could take her place.

Connor barely looked up when Markus sat down.

After a moment, Markus offered a hand to Connor, synthetic skin retracting in an open invitation to share in his grief, to try and be there for him, if he could be.

Connor took his hand, but his synthetic skin remained in place.

Of the four of them, no one moved until the service was over, and Connor didn’t say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor may not be as okay as people think...


	3. A Sense of Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs a break.

Though Gavin was familiar with Connor’s technological abilities, there were some times where he was still creeped out by Connor’s android side.

Like today, for instance. Connor had been staring at that stupid wall of evidence for the first few hours of the day without blinking, LED blipping between yellow and red as he processed data and ran through notes that probably only he could see.

Gavin had left on his lunch break, and when he came back, Connor was exiting the interrogation room, adjusting his shirt cuffs.

“Alright, where we at?” Gavin asked, taking a drink of his coffee.

“All done,” Connor said.

Gavin blinked. “Done? With what? Who’s in there?”

“The last member on the production side of their Blue Ice operation,” Connor said.

“Connor, that’s…” _Incredible. Unbelievable._ "Are you sure you have everything?”

“On the contrary,” Connor said, casting a look back at the interrogation room. “I'm sure I don’t. I want to check and make sure we have identified all of their production locations, confiscated all of their equipment, and have all the evidence in order so that they all go to jail for a long time. Then, we go after the investors.”

“Back up,” Gavin said. “‘Cause I can’t… You got _all of them?”_

“Yes,” Connor said.

Gavin narrowed his eyes. “You don’t seem happy about it.”

“Why would I be happy about sending people to jail?”

"Connor," Gavin said, "this isn't just 'people' - one of them killed Hank. You found Hank's killer and sent-"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Connor said, his eyes hardening. "They all will have their day in court. I need to make sure that all of the evidence is in order, so they are proven guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"What, are you the prosecution, now, too?" Gavin joked.

Connor didn't say anything. His LED had yet to turn blue. In fact, a small voice in the back of Gavin's mind wondered if it had turned blue within the last few _weeks_. 

“C’mon,” Gavin said, taking Connor’s arm. Marching across the bullpen, he dropped his coffee off at his desk and walked right into Fowler’s office with Connor in tow.

Fowler looked up, an eyebrow quirked. “Yes?”

“Connor needs a break,” Gavin said.

Connor jolted. “What? No. I’m perfectly alright-”

“What makes you say so, Reed?” Fowler asked, eyes landing on Connor’s LED. Probably all too aware of how humans could read him like an open book, Connor shifted uncomfortably, turning his head so that his LED wasn’t so noticeable. It still reflected in the glass walls around Fowler’s office.

Still, Gavin humored him. “Connor? Wanna tell the captain what you just told me?”

Connor bristled. “The paperwork isn’t finalized-”

"Just tell him.”

Connor took a breath - likely as a sign of his annoyance rather than a physical need to - and said, “I believe we have apprehended all members of the Blue Ice gang involved directly in production.”

“Shit, really?” Fowler said, sitting up a little straighter. “It’s only been three weeks since you brought the first guy in- How many people is that?”

“About two hundred thirty-eight,” Gavin supplied, “if I have the latest number.”

Fowler sat back in his chair. “Shit.”

“But there is still work to be done,” Connor said hurriedly. “I have a suspect in the interrogation room at this very moment. I believe he knows the names of those supplying the funds for the entire operation. And I want to be very sure that we have them all. And I want to make sure the case file-”

“Hello?” Gavin cut in. “Can Connor take a break now?”

“I don’t need-”

“Stop, both of you,” Fowler said, holding up a hand. Connor and Gavin fell silent.

Fowler pointed at Gavin. “Connor is an adult, Reed. He can make his own decisions.”

Fowler pointed at Connor. “Stop making stupid-ass decisions. Good work, but I can’t properly congratulate you if you’re letting your personal health suffer for the sake of the case. Take the rest of the day off - that’s an order.”

Connor sputtered. “But I have a suspect-”

“Gavin can interrogate him,” Fowler said. “Get him a list of information you want to know, and he’ll get it for you. I don’t want to see you in here until at least eight o’clock tomorrow. Capisce?”

Connor grimaced, but he responded, “Got it.”

Gavin clapped him on the shoulder and steered him back out to the bullpen. “Alright. Good. You deserve a break."

“Shut the door!” Fowler called after them, and Gavin closed the door with his foot.

“I’m not done yet," Connor said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. “I’ll take a break when I’ve finished. Or at least after I’ve interrogated my suspect.”

“You trust me, don't you?” Gavin asked.

Connor blinked at him. “Yes?”

Gavin gave him what he hoped was his best “unimpressed" look. “Look, I know you were made for this shit, but I've been at it longer. I can get the info you need, and you need to go home and rest. You can’t be firing on all cylinders all the time. Nobody can.”

“The last time I took a break from this case, I went to sleep and woke up to find that he’d died,” Connor hissed, the hurt in his voice burning in his eyes. “So, no, I will not be going home. I’m staying.”

Gavin stopped, at a loss for how on _earth_ he should reply. Suddenly, Connor’s drive over the past few weeks started to make more sense.

Standing next to Hank’s conspicuously empty desk, Gavin ignored the elephant in the room and settled on meeting Connor’s hurt with his usual brand of sarcasm. "So, what’s your plan? Never sleep again?”

“I don’t sleep,” Connor said.

“Yeah, and you don’t feel cold, either,” Gavin scoffed.

Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Gavin cut him off. “Just today. If you don’t want to go into stasis or whatever, then I’m sure Sumo would appreciate the walk. You could call Markus and ask if he wants to go with you.”

“He’s been busy,” Connor said, looking away, but he grabbed his coat and began to put it on, so Gavin took it as a victory.

“Alright, text me what you need me to get from this guy,” Gavin said. “I’ll get it from him by the end of day, easy.”

Connor nodded. “If he’s being uncooperative, he becomes very uncomfortable when you twist his left ear. It’s an old injury.”

Gavin blinked. “Connor. What the fuck.”

* * *

Hank shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting with the sleeves in an attempt to ease the discomfort in his shoulders.

 _“Hank, stop fidgeting,”_ Kamski said over the communicator in Hank’s ear. _“You’ll wrinkle that suit and then we’ll have a nightmare on our hands.”_

“You say that like I’m not living a nightmare already,” Hank muttered under his breath, taking a small sip from his glass of champagne.

Finally, after weeks of training and searching, they had identified their Subject Alpha. One of the people Connor had brought in gave up a name in exchange for a lighter sentence and protection.

The name: Douglas Fischer.

Forty-three years old, shareholder of CyberLife from its early days, and a fairly public anti-deviant voice. There were rumors of him looking at running for president, but if Connor’s intel was good (which Hank believed it was without _question_ ), then the rumors would probably stay rumors. He was fairly sure aiding and abetting disqualified someone from running for office.

And, as luck would have it, he was an avid fan and collector of Carl Manfred’s work.

Markus had spent the days leading up to Fischer’s charity gala absolutely _drilling_ Hank on Carl’s life, his work, his personal philosophy… Anything that Markus could remember (which was _everything_ ), Hank would be tested on.

Hank tried not to mind it so much. From the way Markus talked about Carl, he could tell that the man had had a profound impact on the deviant leader. Markus told him stories about his time with Carl, about learning to paint, playing piano, playing chess, watching him work…

Every so often, a touch of heartache would enter Markus’s voice, and he would have to stop and collect himself before continuing.

Somehow, they had managed to prep to a level where Markus was satisfied with Hank’s knowledge. Then, Kamski had tested him on etiquette and Chloe had brought in his new suit, and he was off to try and befriend a possible investor in drug development.

This job was never boring, that was for sure.

As soon as Hank had entered the expensive home, he felt out of place. He might have looked the part, but he was instantly aware of how comfortable everyone else was, here. They looked like they wore their suits as _pajamas_ , these people.

Needless to say, it wasn't the crowd that Hank had grown familiar with in Jimmy’s Bar.

 _“Have you made contact, yet?”_ Fowler asked.

“Does it _sound_ like I’ve made contact?” Hank countered. “Would I still be here if I’d made contact?”

 _“Someone's in a bad mood,”_ Kamski remarked.

If Fowler hadn’t already insisted that Hank would play nice or he’d be off the case, Hank would have punched Kamski in the jaw a _long_ time ago.

 _"Just find something to do,”_ Kamski said. _“Stay in one general area. He’ll be making the rounds and connecting with all of his guests. Especially if he has political aspirations, he’ll be trying to leave a good impression on everyone, and that means making a personal connection. He’ll need funding, and he’s not going to get it now that Connor’s taken down Blue Ice production.”_

...Alright. Even someone like _Kamski_ had his uses, Hank supposed.

Hank set his glass of champagne down on a passing waiter’s tray - he’d never really liked the stuff, anyway.

Find something to do, and stay in one general area. He could do that. He didn’t want to look too much like a social outcast, however. He was trying to give off the impression that he belonged there, after all.

Well, his “thing” was supposed to be art, right? So find some piece of art - something new, something that Fischer would be glancing at, himself, something that he would want to brag about - and look at it long enough for Fischer to notice him taking an interest.

His eyes fell on a piece that he recognized - Carl Manfred’s _“Fragments",_ painted just last year and only sold posthumously. Sharp strokes of grey and white cut over an obsidian figure in the center of the piece, as if the atmosphere itself were tearing him apart.

That would do.

He moved over to the painting and looked up at it. Before taking up this undercover op, Hank was something of an admirer of art. Sure, he didn't know the terminology, but he could appreciate a well crafted painting when he saw one, and “ _Fragments”_ was undoubtedly striking. The piece itself was massive - most Manfred works were - but painted with tiny brushstrokes, each placed with care, meticulous cracks that kept the central figure from being whole. It had an almost nostalgic feeling to it, like it was familiar sensation. Like he’d been that figure, before.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Hank glanced to the side to find none other than Douglas Fischer himself, admiring the painting as if he were only seeing it for the first time. Too easy.

“Yeah,” Hank answered. “Manfred knows how to tie emotion to memory, that’s for sure." Mentally, Hank congratulated himself for saying something at least somewhat intelligent.

“Memory,” Fischer mused. “What makes you say that?”

"Well, this piece is evoking a vague memory,” Hank said. “Manfred’s works are usually emotions tied to visual stimuli, but this is one of a select series where he’s drawing from his memory of an emotion - a relatable emotion, but one too specific to really name. Or, well, I guess he did name it. ‘ _Fractures’.”_

 _“Well done, Hank,"_ Markus said through his comm.

A waiter passed them by and Fischer snagged two glasses of champagne, offering one to Hank. "Are you a fan of Manfred’s?” Fischer asked.

Hank took the glass, but didn't drink. He needed to stay focused. “What gave it away?”

“Well, I’m afraid that I have some more guests to greet,” Fischer said, taking a sip of his champagne. “But perhaps you would be willing to come back some other time? I have other works of Manfred’s that never see the light - too valuable, you know.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Hank said. Then, he added. “I’m an art dealer, myself.”

“Oh really?” Fischer said. “Well, I’ll definitely have to have you back. I’m currently looking into hard assets, and I could use the advice. Come by again tomorrow. Ten A.M. sound alright?”

“Sounds good.”

Fischer started to walk away, but he paused and turned back. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Robert Fitzgerald,” Hank said.

“Douglas Fischer,” Fischer returned. “Alright. Have a pleasant rest of your evening, Mr. Fitzgerald.” And with that, he nodded to Hank, turned on his heel, and found someone else to go talk to.

Hank muttered under his breath, “Great, mission accomplished. Can I leave now?”

 _“He’ll likely be asking his staff about your activities,_ ” Kamski’s voice said. _“You’ll need to stay for at least another half-hour. Otherwise, you'll be deemed suspicious. You want to win his trust, make him believe you’re one of the upper class, one of his ‘tribe’, so to speak. Fail and he will not let you get close.”_

“You sound like you’ve studied this,” Hank remarked.

 _“Yes, well, I wasn’t born into money,”_ Kamski said. He didn’t elaborate.

 _“Try to stay inconspicuous,”_ Fowler said, _“but do your best to meet as many high-profile people you can. Keystone, Beta, and Gamma could all be in the room with you right now.”_

Hank huffed to himself. “Great. Time to make new friends. Just be myself, right?”

Kamski scoffed. _“Ah, no. That would be a bad idea.”_

* * *

North knew Connor, but not as well as Markus did.

She had been wary of him, back in November - in fact, she’d be hard-pressed to name an android that _hadn’t_ looked at the deviant hunter with fear - but the RK800 had wasted no time in joining Jericho, jumping to help wherever he could.

He seemed particularly interested in Markus’s security (or, rather, the lack thereof) and North had decided right then and there that Connor was okay with her.

The two of them decided to act as Markus’s bodyguards, until they were able to put together a team for Markus’s public appearances (Markus had put his foot down when they proposed having a security detail with him at all times - otherwise, if they had their way, Markus would never be alone).

So when Markus asked her to check in on Connor, she was more than happy to do so.

She arrived at Connor’s workplace sometime in the afternoon, but before she could even enter the building, her eyes fell on Detective Reed - Connor’s new partner, for the moment.

He had just parked his motorcycle, and raised a hand in greeting. “Hey. Westra, right?”

“North,” she corrected.

Gavin shrugged. “I was kinda close.”

“Yeah,” she scoffed. "Just like you’re ‘close’ to being six feet tall.”

Gavin choked, offended, and drew himself up to his full height. “I am _five foot_ , _nine inches-”_

“Short, yes,” North said, then walked past him and up the concrete steps, into the precinct.

“You’re one to talk!” Reed yelled after her, but the door clicked shut behind her, putting an end to the conversation.

Connor picked weird friends, but at least Reed was fun to rile up. He almost made it too easy.

But enough of the fun - she was on a mission, after all.

She walked up to the receptionist, who smiled kindly at her. “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I’m here to jailbreak Connor Anderson,” North said.

A few people nearby gave her wary glances, but the receptionist she was talking to snickered. “Inside, far end of the bullpen. He’s the one practically glued to his terminal.”

“I'll take her.” Reed said from behind her. North turned around and saw him glaring at her. Nevertheless, he pushed past her towards the turnstiles and gestured for her to follow. “Connor picks weird friends,” he muttered under his breath. North grinned, but didn’t say anything.

She followed Reed into the precinct, and when she rounded the corner, she took a scan of the room, immediately finding the android she was looking for.

Her eyes fell on Connor, hard at work at his desk. He hadn’t noticed her yet, but she doubted that she could sneak up on him. Even though he had denied it, she was fairly sure he had some sort of “sixth sense” program that could detect danger. It would certainly explain how he was able to dodge bullets, or how he could always tell when someone was about to attack.

Reed moved ahead of her and pulled something out of his pocket. “Hey Tin Man. Catch.”

He tossed a pouch of Thirium at Connor, who broke concentration just in time to catch it. “Thank you,” he said, then his gaze fell on North and he blinked in surprise. “Oh. Hello, North.”

“Hey yourself,” she returned. “Markus told me to say ‘hi’. Check in, see how you’re doing. That sort of thing.”

“Is he busy?” Connor asked, opening his Thirium.

North shrugged. “I guess. I think he’s more stressed, though. Leo’s going back into rehab - he says it’s for good this time but… I dunno. Markus says he's been experimenting with drugs since high school. And he said that he's tried to quit a few times, but it's never stuck.”

“Chances of relapse for Red Ice users is between sixty and seventy percent,” Connor said, nodding. “It will be difficult for him to break the cycle. That being said-” Connor turned back to his terminal- “statistically speaking, there is always a chance for unlikely events to take place. He can do it, if sobriety is what he truly wants.” He took a sip of his Thirium.

“Yeah, well,” North said. “Markus just doesn’t want him getting into Blue Ice. It's still making the news every night, and he's worried that Leo will be the next victim. At least in a rehab center, he can't get access to it.”

“Not a problem,” Reed called from his desk. “Finished them off a couple days ago. Blue Ice’ll be gone in a week, _maybe_ two.”

“What- Is he right?” North looked to Connor. “Are they all gone?”

Connor’s eye twitched. “There are no more Blue Ice producers in Detroit, yes. But it’s still out there. More Blue-Ice-related deaths are reported everyday, so we’re still on the case-”

“Not for the rest of today, you aren’t,” North said. “We’re celebrating. Grab your coat, let’s go.”

“Not gonna work,” Reed jumped in, standing up and moving back over to them. “Connor won’t take a break unless it’s for Sumo.”

“Well that’s unfortunate,” North said. She leveled a warning stare at Connor. “I’ll give you three seconds to save your progress. Three-”

Connor quickly powered down his terminal. “Fine, fine. I’m going. _Don’t delete anything.”_

Reed blinked at her, impressed. “What-”

“He knows I’m more stubborn than he is,” she grinned. “C’mon, you too. Clock out or whatever.”

* * *

Connor supposed that there were worse places North could have taken him for a “celebration”, but he hadn’t anticipated the gun range as a possible destination for relaxing.

Connor had declined to reserve a booth, and had maintained that decision even when North and Gavin pushed back.

“You want me, a police android with perfect aim up to a half-mile away target, to compete against you two in a competition?” Connor asked, eyebrow raised.

“You’re no fun,” North said, matter-of-fact.

“It would be a calibration test for me,” Connor said. “And besides, it wouldn’t be fair to you two.”

“Alright, then you judge,” Gavin said, sliding his noise-cancelling headphones over his ears. “Make sure she doesn’t cheat.”

“You know what, Connor, I think we might have to cancel this,” North said, stepping up to her booth - headphone-less, simply because android auditory components, while less sensitive than the human ear, could handle louder noises without risk of damage. “I don’t think Reed can mentally handle being so completely outclassed. He’ll have a breakdown.”

“He’s a good shot,” Connor said. “I wouldn’t bet yet, if I were you.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring,” North said, loading the magazine into the semi-automatic pistol. “Now shush. I need to concentrate.”

Connor obediently fell silent, but as gunshots echoed through the range, Connor kept his mind intentionally blank. He probably could have been filing reports as he sat there, reviewing evidence, calculating a rough estimate of how much Blue Ice was left unchecked in Detroit, but...he didn’t want to.

He had been working for weeks straight, practically running on fumes in order to avenge Hank’s death, to fill every waking minute of his life with purpose as he blocked out ever-increasing software instabilities and visual input glitches. It had become so bad that Connor now _expected_ a hallucination of Hank to be on the couch whenever he looked into the living room, watching the television with a beer in hand.

Instead, he let his mind stay in the present, as Gavin and North scored identically on their first, second, and third rounds in the competition. They would probably be here for a while - but no matter. He enjoyed their company.

Perhaps, after North and Gavin had their competition settled, they could take Sumo on a walk, maybe watch a film.

But he knew that, as soon as they left, he would be working again, doing everything in his power to keep his mind off of a noticeable absence in his life, because if he didn’t then he would see him again-

So he got back to work.

* * *

Markus listened closely to the communicator. For now, he, Captain Fowler, Officer Miller, and Mr. Kamski were the only ones privy to Hank’s somewhat vague allusions to art as he tried to impress Douglas Fischer. After a somewhat successful night, Hank had returned to Fischer’s residence the next day to discuss Manfred and Fischer’s interest in buying more hard assets, if he could. When Hank needed his help (a rare occurrence, but bound to happen sooner or later), Markus would give him a line to repeat, and Hank would take things from there. Occasionally, Kamski would chime in with advice, and Fowler would give direction. They were a fairly solid team.

Leaving Connor in the dark about everything was...difficult, to say the least. He had avoided Connor for a simple (and selfish) reason: he didn't want to have to lie. If Connor was really suffering and grieving, then he would be over there in a heartbeat. But...

But Connor hadn’t wanted to open up to Markus after Hank had “died”, insisting on being alone, and he hadn't interfaced with anyone or really even _talked_ to anyone on the day of Hank’s “funeral”. He was one of those people who dealt with his emotions on his own - he certainly had never come to Markus in need of emotional guidance.

Text updates from North told him that Connor was working hard, but seemed to be fine (if not a bit tired). She promised to keep checking in on him, and to let Markus know if things became worse.

 _He just misses Hank,_ North said. _His house is quiet without him._

Careful not to reveal Hank’s actual situation, Markus wrote back, _Just be there for him. Let him know he’s not alone._

 _Might be easier if one of his closest friends made time for him,_ North said.

Markus’s gut twisted. He didn't say anything back, but he knew she could read his silence like an open book.

He tried not to think about what she said, instead focusing on returning Hank to Connor _alive._ That would fix everything. Markus could come clean, Hank would be happier, and Connor could stop carrying so much weight on his shoulders.

He just needed to finish this operation, save his people and crush the Blue Ice epidemic, and then everything would be okay again.

* * *

When Connor was called into Fowler’s office early on Monday morning, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He supposed that this was how it felt to be “called to the principle’s office”, to quote a phrase Gavin had used in the past.

“When’s the last time you took a break? Left the precinct for longer than an hour at a time?” Fowler asked, watching Connor with a skeptical eye.

Connor knew the answer - two days ago, when North had forced him out of the precinct for four hours. To Connor, two days was not a very long time, and it was reasonable to say that the last time he had spent processing power on something unrelated to work was a little under forty-eight hours ago. After all, he did not need breaks. He was, technically, a machine. A machine with emotions and free will, sure, but that did not change the fact that he simply did not need to sleep or rest.

But he knew that humans had different standards, and so he didn’t say anything.

Not saying anything was an answer in and of itself.

Fowler leaned back in his chair. After a brief moment of silence, he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m worried that you’re not making good decisions about your personal life, detective.”

Connor frowned. “With respect, captain, I do not see how my personal life is your concern.”

“Well you deserve a break, at least,” Fowler pushed.

“I do not require ‘breaks’,” Connor said. “I prefer to be here, working.”

“Doesn’t mean that you _should_ be here,” Fowler said. He took a breath and looked away for a second, then gathered his thoughts and looked back to Connor. “You’re one of our finest, and not just because you’re literally built for this shit. You’re dedicated, you’ve got a one-track mind, and you triple check everything. But the things that make you a great detective also are what give you grief. You’re so focused on your case that you’ve forgotten the most important part of it is _you._ And the way you’re going, running at full steam for weeks… You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

Connor repeated, “I don’t see how _my personal life_ is your concern-”

“You’re suspended,” Fowler said.

Connor blinked.

He tried to form words, but…

Not even his social relations program could come up with something to say.

_Suspended._

“You won't take time off, fine," Fowler said, a hard look in his eye, as if he was daring Connor to defy him. “Don’t come in for _at least_ a month. Go find a hobby, spend time with your friends, remodel your kitchen, I don’t care. If you don’t want to be friends, fine. You don’t have to be chummy with me. You’re right that your personal life is none of my concern, but in the very least, your mental health affects your job performance, and I reserve the right to bench anyone who I suspect is not taking their job seriously.”

Connor opened his mouth to protest-

“And your job _includes_ your health,” Fowler cut him off. “Self-sacrifice is noble in the movies, but throwing yourself under the bus when you could just wait for the bus to drive by is reckless, careless, and, frankly, an insult to how smart you are, detective. How do you expect others to respect you as an officer when you refuse to respect yourself?”

Once again, Connor had no answer.

Fowler stood up and moved around the desk, leaning back against it instead. Connor’s eyes stayed locked straight ahead. He caught his reflection in the glass of a mounted picture on the wall, his LED spinning red.

“Come back in a month,” Fowler said. “Take a psych eval. You pass, you get your job back.”

“And if I don’t?” Connor asked, eyes still staring forward, unable to look at Fowler’s face.

“Don’t pass, take another week. Try again.” Fowler crossed his arms - a show of discomfort, though Connor had no idea what _he_ had to be uncomfortable about. _He_ wasn’t the one getting fired.

“Connor," Fowler went on. At the use of his name, the deviant detective looked up and found Fowler’s expression saddened, as if he didn't want to remove Connor from the force. “I’m not going to let Hank’s death destroy you, kid. He doesn’t- _wouldn’t_ want that for you. So take a break, sort out your life, and then come back. Okay?”

Connor looked down at his lap. “I suppose you will be requiring my badge?”

Fowler sighed. “Yeah. For now. Don’t worry about your desk, though - we’ll be saving it for you.”

Connor unclipped his badge and his service weapon, placing both on Fowler’s desk, then stood.

He thought about saying something - something harsh, something grateful, something sarcastic - but his mind was so overwhelmed by thoughts of his failure, he couldn’t find the words. So instead, he turned and walked to the door of Fowler’s office.

“Connor,” Fowler called after him, and Connor paused, but he didn’t turn around. “You ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call, alright?”

_He needed his job back._

_He needed his purpose, his identity back._

Connor didn’t say anything. He simply moved over to his desk, grabbed his jacket, and left the DPD for what was quite possibly the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic should have been titled "and then they make things worse" 😅
> 
> I haven't proofread this one yet, but I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for too long. It's already almost twelve hours after I usually post, so yeah. I'll be smoothing this out over the weekend, but it'll be mostly semantics. 
> 
> Next chapter next week, though it might be a little shorter, we'll see...


	4. A Steady Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs to confront his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy this is about to take a dark turn
> 
> Tags have been updated but again, it's just canon-typical stuff.

Gavin parked his bike by Hank’s Oldsmobile. It still sat outside, unused, just as it had since Connor had retrieved it from the DPD about a month ago.

North climbed off the bike, took off her helmet, and fixed her hair. “Next time, remind me to take a taxi.”

“Fine with me,” Gavin said, taking off his helmet as well. “Just means I’ll beat you to wherever we’re going.”

“Not if I hack the taxi and program it to push 80 miles an hour,” North said.

“If you beat me anywhere,” Gavin said, “I’ll just assume that you were speeding and give you a ticket.”

North barked a laugh. “Try me, bitch.”

Gavin rolled his eyes, but didn’t dignify North’s challenge with a response. He moved up to Connor’s front door and knocked.

“Come in!” Connor’s voice called.

Gavin opened the door and froze, suddenly unprepared for this.

The house looked almost unrecognizable. There was no garbage, or evidence of food anywhere. Everything seemed to have been placed perfectly, as if everything - from books to plants to pens to individual dishes - had a designated spot in the house. It looked like something out of a magazine. Even Sumo looked like he had been groomed by a professional.

Connor stood in the kitchen, a mop in hand. He smiled at Gavin and North. “Come in. Don’t worry about your shoes - I’m cleaning the living room next, so it doesn't matter.”

Gavin glanced at North and found her expression mirroring his confusion and barely-suppressed alarm. Connor, wholly focused on his self-appointed task, didn’t notice the look.

“Uh… How’ve you been?” Gavin asked, cautiously moving into the living room. “How’s your first day of unemployment going?”

North sharply elbowed him in the ribs - which was _unfair._ Elbows were painful enough when made of flesh and bone, but when make of plastic and metal… He would have a bruise on the side of his rib cage, that much was for sure.

“Good,” Connor said. “I have been busy.”

“I can tell,” Gavin said, choosing his words carefully. “It looks...good. A lot more...uh...put together.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure Sumo will blow his coat soon, and I'll be deep cleaning once again,” Connor said. He squeezed the excess mop water out into the bucket at his feet and kept mopping. Gavin briefly let his eyes slide over to Sumo, who, upon realizing that someone was paying attention to him, perked up and thumped his tail against the floor.

“The house seems...like there’s not much work left," North chimed in. She took the armchair, eyes roaming around the room analytically.

Connor shrugged. “I kept the house relatively clean when… Before.”

“Before?" Gavin asked.

“Something Hank used to say,” Connor said with a rueful smile. There was a distant look in his eye before he snapped out of it and went back to work. “Can I get you two anything? I…don't have very much human food, but if you want a glass of water-”

“I’m okay,” Gavin cut him off. “Actually, we kinda...wanted to talk.”

Connor stopped what he was doing and looked up. “About what?”

“You mopped yesterday, Connor,” North said, crossing her arms. “I can see the residue.”

For a second, Connor didn’t move. He just stood there in the kitchen, LED still spinning that daisy yellow.

He turned back to his mopping in a hurry. “I need to redo it. If you can see the residue, then clearly I-I missed a spot and-”

“You want to know what I think?” North asked, standing up from her armchair and crossing the living room towards where Connor stood, his back to her. “I think you’ve been avoiding something.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you," Connor said, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Not me,” North said. _"Yourself._ ”

Connor scoffed, but the way he kept his eyes on the task at hand (which was apparently wringing out a mop so thoroughly that there was no water left in the thing) betrayed his discomfort. “I cannot avoid myself. That’s impossible-”

“You’re impossible,” North said.

“Connor, I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but she’s right,” Gavin said, crossing his arms. “Your forehead light-”

“LED,” Connor corrected in a small voice.

“Yes, whatever-the-fuck,” Gavin said, annoyed. “Point is, it’s supposed to be _blue._ I know that much.”

“It’s not good for you to keep emotions bottled up inside," North said. She offered a hand to Connor, and though Gavin couldn’t see her hand from where he sat on the couch, the soft blue glow reflected in the kitchen appliances told him that she was offering to do that weird hand-thing.

North went on. “Believe me, I know how it feels. I used to be so full of...of _rage_ , this righteous indignation that I just didn’t know how to deal with, and so I just…didn't deal with it. It shredded my core, hollowed myself out until I just felt empty. Empty and angry, and I couldn’t let the anger go because it was all I had left.”

Connor stopped moving.

After a second, Gavin stood and moved to join North. “I remember when Cole died. That kid...he was like my kid brother. And then he was gone. And I know it hurts to lose someone close - hell, Hank was my… He helped me get on my feet, way back when. And it hurts to look that loss in the face, but you have to live with it without letting it define you. It's too big to go away with a simple distraction. You have to let it become a part of who you are; it’s the only way to take away the pain of it.”

North reached out and gently snagged Connor’s elbow. “Connor, give me the mop.”

Connor didn’t move.

Gavin grabbed the handle of the mop and uncurled Connor’s fingers, easing it out of his grip. The synthetic skin on Connor’s palms glitched between looking like skin and revealing the pearly white plastic of his chassis, as if he had been working with the mop for so long that his hands had been scraped raw.

With a gentleness that Gavin didn’t know she possessed, North slid a hand around to the nape of Connor’s neck and pulled him into a hug. He hid his face in her shoulder, trembling hands loosely reciprocating the embrace - as if he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed the comfort.

Well, Gavin could fix that. It’d be cheesy, sure, but if it helped Connor tear down his walls, then did it really matter?

Gavin propped the mop up against the kitchen table, then joined the hug, putting his arms around both North and Connor.

And Connor broke.

He gripped North’s shoulders and Gavin’s jacket tightly, his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders shook and his chest heaved with every gasp and sob that managed to escape. Gavin started to feel like he was physically trying to hold Connor’s pieces together, like he would fall apart as soon as he let go.

"I miss him,” Connor managed to force out. “I miss him so much.”

Gavin didn’t say anything. He wasn’t the comforting type, anyway - in fact, prolonged physical contact tended to make him incredibly uncomfortable. For now, he forced down his discomfort. He needed to be here, to be _present._ If Connor felt that he was in any way imposing, he would pull away again, and his walls would be up again in an instant.

So he just kept holding onto the two androids that somehow had become his friends over the past few weeks, and there he remained until Connor had no more tears to cry.

* * *

“Alright,” Hank said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Fischer barked a laugh by the golf cart. “So long as you don’t let go of the club and hit me in the head, that’s fine.”

“You just want an easy win,” Hank said, lining up his shot and squaring his shoulders. He swung the iron and made contact with the golf ball, sending it up into the air...and into the lake.

“A valiant attempt,” Fischer said, grinning.

Hank scoffed and moved to put his iron away. “You’re just lucky we’re not fishing. Otherwise, I’d have you.”

“Oh? You fish?”

 _“No, you don’t,”_ Kamski’s voice said in Hank’s ear.

“Used to,” Hank said, working with Kamski's instruction. Weeks of having him as a voice in his ear made adapting to his advice almost second nature (which was worrying, but a problem for another time). “Not anymore. Was pretty good at it, though.”

“You certainly are full of surprises, Rob,” Fischer said, his eyebrows raised in an impressed look. 

Hank shrugged. “Nah. Not really.”

“Got a family?”

“Technically,” Hank answered.

 _“Smooth, Hank,”_ Fowler said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Fischer looked at him, a curious gleam in his eye. “Divorced? Or bachelor for life?”

“Same difference.”

“Yes, I suppose so. So am I correct in assuming that you have a relatively open schedule?”

Hank frowned. He didn't _...not_ have anything to do. He didn't want to give him the impression that he was inactive. “Well… I wouldn’t call it ‘open’. ‘Flexible’ might be the better word.” 

“Good,” Fischer grinned, taking his club out of his golf bag and moving up to the tee. “How’s tomorrow look?”

“Flexible,” Hank said, returning the smirk.

“Excellent.” Fischer swung at the golf ball and hit it with a solid _SMACK._ It soared over the manicured green course, dropping just shy of the green.

Hank whistled. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

 _“Hank, no swearing,”_ Kamski chastised, but he sounded bored - probably since Kamski had had to give the same instruction a dozen times already.

Fischer spun the iron in his hand before deftly dropping it back into the golf bag. “Nine thirty tomorrow morning. I want you to meet a friend of mine. We’re in a joint venture - with a few others. We’re looking at putting the money into hard assets, and I think you’re just the right guy for the job. You in?”

 _“Fuck yes!”_ Fowler said, clapping over the comm. It took every ounce of self-control from Hank for him to not flinch at the sudden loud noise in his ear. He would be having _words_ with Jeff, later. 

“Depends on whether you’re paying for breakfast or not,” Hank said, plucking another golf ball from the bag and sending Fischer a grin to let him know he was joking.

Fischer returned the smile. “Excellent.”

* * *

Captain Fowler paced back and forth across the late Carl Manfred’s art studio. The march-like  _ clips  _ of his shoes were driving Markus  _ up a wall _ , but asking the captain to stop his back-and-forth would be rude. He turned off his auditory processors and kept working.

Markus stood nearby, occasionally glancing over to the pacing police captain for a second before returning his gaze to the painting he had been working on for the past week. It was a relatively simple piece - a vaguely humanoid figure with heavy chains in his shadow. Carl had always said that truth is best shown plain and simple, but when that truth was emotive, simple was...not exactly easily attained. He knew he was trying to express guilt and regret, but where those heavy feelings were coming from…

Needless to say, he had a bit of soul searching to do - something he would have done as he painted and let his mind wander, but Fowler’s irritating footsteps kept him from slipping into a rhythm.

Kamski had stayed for a little while, but once noon had passed, he declared that he had work to do and was going home - he could be briefed later. 

So it was just the two of them, for now. 

“How is Connor?” Markus asked, his voice breaking up the sound of the captain’s pacing and his own brush stokes.

“Good,” Fowler said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stopping to stand still -  _ thank RA9 _ . “Good. He’s at home.”

“Did he take the time off?” 

“Something like that, yes.”

Markus frowned. “He wasn’t hurt, was he?”

“No-” Fowler stopped and corrected himself. “Well, he wouldn’t tell me if he was, so I guess I don’t know. But no, he’s not on bedrest or anything. He’s just taking a break from work.”

“That’s probably very difficult for him,” Markus said, turning back to his painting. “I hope he doesn’t stay unoccupied for long - he has a lot of energy. He needs something to do.”

“I’m sure he can find something,” Fowler said. “He was getting too close to Hank. He needed to be put off the case, or else they would run into each other eventually - and that would be a nightmare.”

Markus glanced back at Fowler with a look of skeptical disbelief. “You think that, now that Connor has nothing better to do, he will give up on his attempts to avenge Hank’s death?”

Fowler blinked.

Markus raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve got Gavin looking after him,” Fowler said, dismissing the thought. “He’ll make sure Connor’s not getting into trouble.”

Markus frowned and opened his mouth to reply-

The doors to the studio opened, and Hank walked in, triumphant smirk on his face. “William Peck.”

“Are you shitting me?” Fowler asked, moving to greet Hank. “Bill  _ Peck _ ?”

“Yep,” Hank said. “Founder of SunBolt Electronics himself. And you were right - they said there are two other guys that they need to talk to before bringing me in. Four total. And they mentioned something about a charity auction coming up. I think they're planning on using it as a front for something else, I dunno what.”

“But you’re in?”

Hank practically exuded pride as he said, “I’m in.”

* * *

Connor poured Sumo’s food into his food bowl and straightened, turning back to the massive St. Bernard. Just as he was trained to do, Sumo sat and waited, droplets of drool already collecting on the kitchen floor. 

“Good boy, Sumo,” Connor said. “Release.” 

Recognizing the command, Sumo stood and ducked forward, planting his snout in his food bowl, and he started to devour the food. 

Connor smiled and patted Sumo’s back, but there was no reaction from the dog. “You act like I never feed you,” Connor joked.

As was to be expected, there was no reaction from the preoccupied Sumo. In all likelihood, Sumo wouldn’t have understood him even if his attention was solely on Connor.

But that was alright. He was a good dog. 

With nothing better to do, Connor moved into the living room, cybernetically turning on the television and sitting on the couch. He changed it to the news channel. He might not be a detective anymore, but he was curious. ~~Hank would say that he could never “leave well enough alone.”~~

Apparently, it was a slow day for news in Detroit. The news anchors only mentioned park renovations and an upcoming Easter event before moving on to escalating tensions between the United States and Russia and whatever President Warren’s latest scandal was. With both political factions fighting for what they dubbed “the deviant vote”, the news from the last few months was always full of political speeches, new acts and amendments and proposals… 

Connor had never really taken an interest in national politics, android rights… Really, that was always Markus’s domain. He had been busy fighting for their people on a national stage; Connor helped him by holding down the fort in Detroit and securing Markus’s personal safety. 

He had spent a lot of time around the deviant leader, trying to prove himself and his deviancy in every action. He knew the other leaders of Jericho relatively well, but Markus had always been… Markus had been open. Markus had been true, easy to befriend and reach out to. He had been Connor’s compass when it came to his emotions and any personal difficulties. He was the only person that Connor was comfortable interfacing with - partly because he knew that Markus wouldn’t judge him based on whatever he found in his head, and partly because Markus had very little trauma. He liked to feel Markus’s sense of peace, his sense of belonging and his hope. It was comforting; a breath of summer air, warmed by the sun. 

And Markus had always been there for him. He always checked in to make sure he was doing okay - like just a few months ago, when he stopped by Connor's room in New Jericho every day as he received treatment after his kidnapping.

He had been there in the hospital, and he’d been at the funeral… 

“So, where is he now?”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^^

Connor jumped at the new voice and looked to the side, his eyes falling on his latest glitch. Hank sat on the other end of the couch, wearing that DPD Police Academy sweatshirt that he loved so much. 

Connor returned his eyes to the TV, glaring at it without registering what he was seeing. “Markus is busy,” he said, but _not_ to Hank. No, he wouldn’t… He wasn’t talking to a hallucination. He was talking to himself. That was better, wasn’t it?

Either way, Hank scoffed. “Markus is always busy. You’ve only seen him, what, twice? North’s been over more often, and she’s _always_ with him. You don't wonder what he's up to? Hell, even Reed’s been a better friend.” He took a drink from a dark brown glass - _where did he get that from Connor had thrown out all the alcohol this morning-_ “Fuck, what’s the world coming to?”

Connor clenched his fists and grit his teeth. “Reed is my new partner. I work closely with North on Markus’s security team. It makes sense why they would…”

Hank huffed. “Fine. Stay in denial, then.”

Connor leaned forward, putting his hands on either side of his head and digging his nails into his scalp. The pressure was grounding, and the small damage warnings that popped up in his vision almost obscured his glitch-hallucination of Hank from view. “Get out of my head,” Connor ordered.

“That’s up to you,” Hank said, callous in a way that Connor had only seen from Amanda. “Not like I’m actually here, is it? _You_ brought me back. So, go ahead. Get rid of me.” 

Connor glanced up-

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^^^

Hank stared at him with unblinking, bloodshot eyes. His eye sockets and cheeks were sunken, his thin skin a pallid green and purple, and there were wet patches of red spreading across his chest- blood seeping into the couch where he sat-

He opened his mouth to say something, and liquid crimson dribbled down his chin, blood sticking between his teeth as his mouth moved, speaking without sound. But Connor could read his cracked lips perfectly.

_“Where were you?”_

A scream caught in Connor’s throat as he scrambled back, _away_ , over the edge of the couch. He knocked over a side table, the lamp crashing to the ground beside him, but he didn’t spare it a glance before he was on his feet, running as fast as possible back to the safety of Hank’s room.

He slammed the door shut behind him, breathing heavily even though the action was pointless. He didn’t need oxygen for his systems to function, and he wasn’t overheating - and yet he couldn’t stop himself. 

He darted forward and locked the door, still panting hard. Any second now, Hank would be following after him, banging on the bedroom door and demanding to be let in...

But there was no sound from the other side of the door.

Connor turned away-

He yelped and stumbled back into the wall, falling to the floor as Hank marched up to him, his bloodshot eyes wide and almost feral. “This is all because of you. You _know_ that.”

“N-no!” Connor said, pressing himself into the wall as if he could just melt through it if he pushed hard enough. “No I- Hank-”

“You think you caught my killer?” Hank challenged.

 _It’s not him,_ Connor insisted in his head. _It’s not him. He’s not real. Hank would never- It’s not him._

“Why aren’t you the one in jail?” Hank asked, and Connor hated how he could almost predict what Hank would say next. It was as if Hank was just speaking his internal thoughts aloud, as if they were written down somewhere for all to see. 

“We were partners, Connor,” Hank said. Connor whimpered and disabled his auditory processors, but Hank’s voice still rang loud and clear. “You should have been there with me. You could have protected me. ”

 _“Stop!”_ Connor yelled, his voice box popping with static from the stress. “Stop- leave me _alone!”_

Connor buried his face into his knees, hands clamped tightly over his ears as the tears slipped down his cheeks.

But...it stopped. 

Risking a glance, Connor peeked up from his knees and scanned the room.

NO SIGNS OF LIFE DETECTED.  
SCAN AGAIN?

Connor repeated the scan.

NO SIGNS OF LIFE DETECTED.  
SCAN AGAIN?

Connor’s confidence slowly grew, until he felt safe enough to uncurl from his position by the door. 

No reaction from the room. ~~The hallucination~~ His glitch had resolved itself, the barrier between his memory storage and real world perception restored once again.

Sumo whined at the bedroom door and scratched at it, asking to be let in, but Connor kept the door closed.

Eventually, the giant St. Bernard stopped begging and went to go lie down in the living room, but Connor stayed by the door, not even trusting himself to _blink_ for the rest of the night as he ran scan after scan, checking to make sure the shadows of the room didn’t hold any of his demons.

(It was a pity that his demons weren't in the shadows, but in his head. He began to run diagnostic checks with every scan of the room, as well.)

He scanned the room again and again, but as the night wore on, it became increasingly obvious that he was alone in Hank’s room. 

Alone, in every sense of the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me on Tumblr! @pechoraflow
> 
> OR yell at me on the Android Whump Discord! https://discord.gg/xd8qVKx


End file.
